


F81.1 - Orpheus

by MundaneChampagne



Series: U21 [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Asexual Character, Established friendships, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Occupy Hangman's Alley, The Molecular Level (Railroad)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneChampagne/pseuds/MundaneChampagne
Summary: Once upon a time, Deacon would've said he didn't believe in fairytales.He knew what they were, of course. The old ones and the new. He didn't believe in fairytales, once upon a time. Then, he saw a handsome man walk out of the earth, a ghost of the past. A stolen son—imprisoned by a witch—no, the Institute. A clever guide—this one a battered old synth who the handsome man rescued from a dragon—no. Gangsters.Deacon didn't used to believe in fairytales.But these days, he thinks, he might be in one.But can there be a happy ending?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Hey it's Gary!](https://i.imgur.com/7NwC9Jb.png)
> 
> Anyway, in my book, you can't romance Deacon or Nick Valentine because they're too busy romancing each other. Did I mention I love this rarepair? Well here you go. I love this rarepair. They're so easy to write together.

When Gary marches into Railroad HQ, he is greeted with a hush.

"I've got the plans," he says, and the stillness bursts into activity. Everyone crowds around the central dais, straining to see as Gary unfolds the paper and smoothes it out.

"Are these written in crayon?" Desdemona asks, frowning.

"Doesn't matter what they're written in!" Tom exclaims. "These Institute eggheads...this is _amazing_."

"Can you build it?" Gary asks.

Tom grins, taps a finger on the drawing. "Gonna take some work, some engineering gaps to fill in, but yeah. You can start with the base, that's easy enough, just need some high-grade metal. I'll send one of my guys out—"

"Hang on," Dez interrupts. "Where are we building this? We can't risk it falling into the wrong hands."

Gary clears his throat. "I cleared out an alley of raiders about a week ago," he says. "Right by Diamond City. It's already fortified, and it's a little difficult to find unless you know what to look for."

"Diamond City? Absolutely not," Dez says. "Diamond City is a no-fly zone for a reason. It's too risky."

"Actually," Gary says, "it'd be pretty ideal. Easy access to a scrap market. Surrounded by tall buildings. There are multiple escape routes. The raiders had some pretty nice defenses in. All we have to do is hang up the bodies, and it'll be just another raider outpost again."

Drummer Boy chuckles. "I can tell you've been hanging around Deacon too much."

Dez purses her lips. "All right. It's a go. Top priority. HQ personnel only." She folds up the plans and hands them to Tom, turns to Gary. "Go secure the location, and put out a dead drop. We'll meet you there in the morning."

 

Nick Valentine lays a card down.

"All right," Deacon says. "I'll give you that one."

A few hands later—

"Fuck."

Nick grins. "I believe that makes me the winner."

"So it does." Deacon scoops the cards up and shuffles them with quick hands. "How are you so good at this? You've been playing less than an hour."

Nick shrugs. "You're good at poker because you're a good liar. Lying won't help you here. This is all a game of numbers."

Deacon grimaces. "Point taken. Wanna go again?"

Nick holds up his good hand. "Hang on."

Deacon immediately scrambles for his rifle. "What is it?"

Nick puts down his hand. "It's Gary. He's got pretty distinctive footsteps."

Deacon relaxes, grins. "Excellent. So," he says, spreading out the cards across the makeshift table, "you now know Caravan. Use this skill wisely. Caravan guards tend to be underpaid, so leave them a little when you're done."

"You really think I'm out to fleece people? I'm not you, Deacon." Nick stands and peers out the door of the shack, just in time for a bit of snow to slide off the roof and down his collar.

"Ouch," Deacon replies, watching Nick try and scoop the snow out of his coat. "That bites. Hey, you know what else bites? The fact that we're going to be stuck here for months on end while we build this damn contraption."

"You don't even know what Gary's going to tell us," Nick said, flicking a bit of snow in Deacon's direction. "So hold your horses."

Deacon shrugs. "I know Dez. Hey, wanna put some money down on what Charmer's gonna say?"

"No," Nick says. "I won those caps fair and square."

"Hey, you wouldn't have 'em if I hadn't taught you everything I know. At least buy me some noodles?"

"Fine."

"And a package of snack cakes?"

"That's pushing it."

"Aw."

A few seconds later, the crunching of snow heralds Gary's arrival. He's bundled in a down jacket that he'd found somewhere. Like all of Gary's belongings, it's in almost immaculate condition, like the cleanliness of the Old World had rubbed off on it.

"What's the verdict?" Nick calls to him.

Gary slides into the shack and shivers. "It's a go," he says. "And we're building it right here."

"How much of a fight did Dez put up?" Deacon wants to know.

"Only a minor one. I was able to convince her pretty easily."

"Told ya," Deacon says. "She's always more resistant to ideas when they come from my mouth. Or when I'm standing in their presence. Or when I'm even the least bit involved."

Nick snorts. "So what's the plan?"

Gary wrinkles his nose. "First? Get rid of those bodies."

Their eyes are drawn to the pile of dead raiders sitting in the corner of the alleyway.

"Uh, yeah, they're not the best houseguests," Deacon says, leaning back in the crude wooden chair. "I'll leave you to it. Handling dead things in this cold chaps my hands something awful."

Nick catches Gary rolling his eyes, but they deal with the corpses without a word. Gary comes up with the idea of posing them around the walls barring off the alley; making the place look like a proper raider stronghold.

By the time they're finished, the sun is already setting, and the tall buildings turn the alley into a maze of shadows. "No point in staying out in this cold," Nick says. "Let's head back to the agency for the night."

Gary hangs back to set a dead drop. Nick and Deacon trudge through the snow, Nick stopping to buy noodles for everyone on the way.

The warmth in the agency is a welcome relief from the bitter chill outside. Ellie looks to be finishing up some files for the night. She welcomes them and the noodles with a smile. "All quiet, Nick. People get up to less trouble when there's so much snow on the ground."

"Yeah, you wait," Nick replies. "Pretty soon being locked inside for the winter will start driving everyone stir crazy. Then the winter rush will really begin."

"Winter rush?" Deacon asks.

Ellie giggles. "We've had some crazy cases in the past. Torrid affairs, family disputes—just the kind of things that happen when people are cooped up together for too long."

"Like we're gonna be while we build this thing," Deacon mutters, chasing noodles around in his bowl with the chopsticks.

"It'll be a busy winter, that's for sure," Nick says, and retreats to his own paperwork.

 

The sun is rising in the sky when they meet in the alley the next morning.

Tinker Tom hasn't bothered to show his face. He's sent along a few of his crew, who are busy picking through the alley for anything the raiders left behind, and clearing space for the build.

He, Valentine, and Gary are assigned to scav duty. Deacon mentally cheers. He'd been afraid that he was going to have to sit and supervise. Or worse, be relegated to drudge work.

After Tom's main assistant impresses on them the importance of getting this right for the _third_ time, Deacon finally speaks up. "Where's Tom? I'd honestly feel better about putting Charmer through this thing if Tom were supervising."

She scowls at him. "He's not coming out of his hole. Something about MILA picking up 'bad particulates'."

Deacon mentally shudders. Gary had dragged him to the top of a _very_ tall building to place one of Tom's MILA gadgets. A _very tall_ building that was now being used as an excuse for Tom to stay out of the sunlight.

She notes the look on his face. "Don't worry, he'll want to check everything over once it's complete. We're not gonna let Charmer on something that isn't built to perfection."

And with that, they're sent off with a shopping list.

 

Back in the alley, they pool their findings. Gary's gotten some nice bargains. Rare-earth magnets, plus a few more advanced pieces of electronics that would be hard to find in the wild.

"All you have to do is be polite," Gary says. "Myrna's really not that bad."

Deacon snorts. "Speak for yourself. I smiled at her one time, and that somehow convinced her that I was a synth just waiting to strike."

They light a small fire to cook lunch over and huddle around. "And that's nothing compared to how she treats me," Valentine adds.

The smile vanishes from Gary's face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Valentine shrugs. "She got her caps and we got some scrap. All in a day's work."

Gary looks down at his plate of mac n' cheese. "She trusts Percy to run her business at night, you'd think she'd be a little more accepting of synths."

"Don't count on it," Valentine says. "You, you see robots as people. Or as close to people as they can be. Most people just see 'em as machines to serve their every will."

"Like the Institute treats synths," Deacon adds, then smirks. "Although there have been a few unkind rumors floating 'round about Myrna and that robot…"

"They are unkind," Valentine interrupts, "and we will not be repeating them."

Deacon holds back a snicker as Gary looks between them, baffled.

"Ok. Now the rake. Gently, like this." Deacon demonstrates as Gary, tongue poked into his cheek, fiddles with the lock.

A pin clicks.

"Just enough tension to keep it there." Deacon places his hand over Gary's, guiding his movements. "Now find the next pin."

The lock sticks, and Gary makes a noise of frustration.

Deacon shrugs. "It's fine. Just let it reset and try again. We'll make a locksmith of you yet."

Two tries later, Gary is able to turn the lock all the way.

Deacon grins. "Great job. Keep practicing. Who knows, you might run into a situation where you're on your own and there's only one simple lock that stands between you and getting away from an enraged deathclaw—"

"I doubt it," Valentine calls over his shoulder.

Gary smiles. "That's right, I never did tell you guys my deathclaw story, did I."

"The one you fought in power armor?" Valentine asks.

"The same."

So they gather around, listen to Gary tell the tale. If Deacon hadn't seen the whole thing himself, he would never have believed it. As it is, Gary might make a fine liar himself one day. He can spin a good story.

Too bad that Gary is an honest man at heart. Not like Deacon.


	2. Chapter 2

The days pass. They raid the old Vault Tec offices, and Gary's mouth presses into a thin line when he sees the requisitions for Vault 111. They run into a group of raiders with a missile launcher and only get away by running through Boston Common, Deacon dropping a grenade in the pond. Guaranteed to wake the Swan, and the raiders have to deal with the consequences.

Five days into this crazy venture, and they get caught in Goodneighbor when the sky decides to dump even more snow on the ground. They forgo the cold to hole up in the Third Rail.

Deacon tells Gary and Valentine to go on ahead. He hasn't seen Magnolia in a while, and he can't just let his best tourist rot in that bar with intel that remains uncollected. He ducks into an alley, opens his bag, and quickly changes into his "asshole drifter" look. Scruffy shirt, scruffy wig, and big arrogant grin.

The whole art is in the swagger. So he barges into the Third Rail, oozes down the stairs, and calls out Magnolia's name in a slurred voice. The whole bar looks up at him, and Magnolia peters out her song, a smile drawing over her face. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gary and Valentine parked in a couch, both looking very surprised.

"Been too long, love," he says, and slings an arm around her waist. Magnolia just squeezes him closer,  winks. He escorts her to the VIP room on his arm, drawing envious looks from everyone in the bar. The door slamming shut behind him is his cue. Magnolia parks herself on a couch, Deacon flicks on the radio and turns it up, and pulls a notebook out of his pocket.

"Sorry about the delay," he says, sitting next to her. "Been some crazy developments past month or so. What'cha got for me?"

Magnolia drops her charm face and leans back on the couch, lights a cigarette. "You're not the only one who's been busy. Everything's been buzzing like a nest of bloatflies. Between that big old airship, more and more people being replaced, and this Vault dweller running around, I've got enough information for a whole year."

Deacon shrugs. "It is December. We're just getting a jump start on 2288. Shoot."

He writes everything down in his notepad, in a code that can only be broken by whoever happens to possess Carrington's annotated Qur'an. Completely secure, as long as HQ remains safe.

When they're done, Magnolia musses up her hair, and Deacon untucks and wrinkles his shirt. Magnolia wipes a hand over her lips, smearing the lipstick, then wipes the excess off on Deacon's neck. "Looking good," she says with a smile.

"Right back at'cha, Mags," Deacon replies. "Now go dazzle 'em."

He throws open the door to the VIP room with a bang, wearing the grin of a man who's just got some. Magnolia, ever the diva, sweeps across the floor and back to the stage. Deacon doesn't bother sticking around. Let Magnolia's mysterious squeeze remain mysterious. He marches imperiously up the stairs and out into the snow.

Another costume change, and he's still a drifter, but one with a lot less luck. He books a room at the Rexford, and leaves a note for Valentine and Gary.

They get back a little later, Gary carrying a bucket of hot water. He sets it down by the door. "Time to warm up," he says cheerfully.

"So," Valentine says, glancing at Deacon, disapproval in his voice. "Magnolia, huh?"

Deacon grins at him. "That's what you're supposed to think."

Gary nods. "She's one of your tourists, right?"

"Bingo. You can pick up a lot of gossip in a place like that." Deacon carefully slides the bobby pins out of his wig, holds them in his mouth, unties the pantyhose that serves as a wig cap. The whole thing gets carefully folded and stashed in his bag.

"Also a lot of people high on various things," Valentine says. "How can you sort out what's good information from what's not?"

Deacon shrugs. "That's not my job. My job is, I cultivate all my assets, get their information, and send it up the chain of command. Honestly," he says, grabbing a washcloth from his bag, grabbing the bucket of water, and heading for the bathroom, "the little stuff doesn't matter that much."

After he's washed his face, he comes back out and claims one of the beds.

"I'm not sure what you mean when you say that the little stuff doesn't matter much," Valentine says. "In my line of work, it's often the smallest details that can crack a case."

Deacon glances over at Gary, who is about to take his turn with the bathroom. "All right. This is for your benefit, Charmer. Lesson whatever we're up to by now: situational awareness can apply on many different scales. It behooves you to pay attention to the big picture. Have a baseline. So if something is off, you'll see it right away. The little stuff all feeds into that basic state of Commonwealth. But if you start seeing variations from the baseline, that's when you know something is up."

He pulls back the covers on the bed and wiggles underneath. "A few years ago, my assets started reporting more sightings of Institute scavving parties than usual. A few such reports wouldn't be of much concern. But when we took all that information and put it together, we found that most of the activity was concentrated around University Point. So we knew something was off, and sent people in to investigate. Now, without knowing the day-to-day state of things, we wouldn't've been able to take preemptive action. Those little details? They don't matter much on their own. It's when you put them together that the real intelligence magic happens."

He pauses. "And that's why a few drunks in Goodneighbor telling tall tales isn't going to be a problem. Because it's on too small a scale to screw with our analysis."

Valentine nods. Gary hovers in the bathroom door. Deacon glances over at him. "Lesson over."

Gary nods and shuts the bathroom door.

"University Point, huh," Valentine muses, lighting a cigarette. "Would this be around the time it was destroyed?"

Deacon shrugs a shoulder. "About, yeah."

Valentine narrows his eyes. "Your people didn't have anything to do with that, did they?"

"No. We were just on standby." Deacon stares him down, relying on the sunglasses to try to convey an air of intimidation. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it was a damn shame what happened there," Valentine says, blowing out a mouthful of smoke forcefully. "I had to deal with one of the survivors. She hired me to find out who'd been behind it. It didn't take much digging to turn up Kellogg's name. I told her to give it up if she wanted to live." He glances down. "She wasn't too happy about that, but at the time, I wasn't comfortable going after Kellogg without more intel and a good partner." He sighs. "I know Kellogg's dead now, but that doesn't do University Point much good."

"Hey," Deacon says, desperate to deflect this line of conversation. "You don't have to tell me. I'm from University Point." Not quite a lie, but enough truth to turn his voice thick. "If I could've done anything to prevent it—"

"You would've." Valentine fills in the blank for him. Good. Deacon's off the hook for now. Valentine's expression softens. "I'm sorry."

Deacon waves it away. "Hey. It's all in the past."

They're silent for a moment, then Gary emerges from the bathroom and bids them all goodnight. Gary takes the other bed, pulls his hat (like Valentine's, but in much better condition) down over his face, and promptly falls asleep.

Deacon reaches down to the oil lamp on the floor and dials back the light. The room fills with soft shadows. There's a rustle, and Valentine moves from his position at the wall and comes over to Deacon's bed, his yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Budge up," he murmurs to Deacon.

"I thought you didn't sleep?" Deacon asks, moving over to one side of the mattress.

"No," Valentine says, "you're the one in this group who doesn't sleep." It's true. Deacon rarely catches more than a few hours at a time. "But I like to have a lie-down every once in a while and let my mind drift off, and I don't want to wake Gary."

Deacon shrugs. "Sure." At this, Valentine climbs into the bed and props himself up against the headboard. After a second, he removes his hat and places it on the floor. Deacon's struck by his bare head—the worn and dirty synth skin, sporting small tears that would let him glimpse the machinery underneath, if the light was better.

Valentine shrugs. "Cozier than the last time."

Deacon snorts quietly, mindful of Gary, but he doesn't have to be. Gary could sleep through a bar fight. "I never want to do that again."

"What, you didn't have any fun? Used to be that some folks were really into winter camping. They'd get special gear for it and head into the wilderness in the dead of January."

Deacon shudders. The first time he'd met Valentine, Gary had dragged them up north to retrieve his suit of power armor, and they'd gotten trapped in a blizzard. They'd been forced hunker down for a good two days. Just two humans and a synth in the wilderness. Deacon had not enjoyed himself. "Pre-War folks don't know how good they had it."

"That's for certain."

"I mean, what, hot water on demand? Books without pages missing? And then they go out and rough it for fun? Crazy."

"It was never Nick's cup of tea, I'll give you that." Valentine pauses.   

Deacon's well aware of the strange duality of Valentine's self, and doesn't know enough to feel comfortable commenting on it. He changes the topic. "Feel free to wake me up if I start bothering you." He knows that his nightmares turn physically violent on the regular. And all the talk about University Point is not going to help. Deacon will amazed if he gets more than two hours tonight.

Valentine just nods, and Deacon turns on his side, exhales, his sunglasses digging into his face. Back to the grind in the morning.

 

The teleporter is coming along. A skeletal frame rises out of the muck in the alley, wires hanging off it like vines. The three of them sort the day's salvage and collapse by the campfire that Tom's people have built, grateful to be off their feet.

Eventually, all the others have wandered off to bed. They've set up camp under the small shack that the raiders left behind. The Railroad is used to slumming it. Gary and Deacon, however, stay with Nick every night. It's the least Nick can do for them.

The conversation's taken a morose turn. The teleporter always hovering over their shoulders, like a carrion bird, reminding them. That this isn't a game. That lives and hearts are at stake. And the conversation turns towards Shaun.

Gary sighs and spins his wedding ring on his finger. "Shaun wasn't planned. I'd just gotten back from my deployment, and, well…not great timing. Nora was working her ass off while she was pregnant, since I couldn't."

He pauses and takes a long drink from an ancient beer bottle. "And on top of everything else, we'd never talked about kids. Right from the beginning we were worried for him. I mean, his mother's a high-powered white lawyer, and I'm just a depressed black veteran who can't deal with a nine to five. We never fit into that neighborhood. And Shaun? We were wondering how he was going to fit into everything."

He heaves a sigh. "Not that it matters now."

"Hey." Nick pats his shoulder. "We get Shaun back, we'll make sure he never feels like an outsider."

Gary manages a small smile. "I appreciate it." He looks around at them. "What about you guys? Do you have any family?"

Nick winces. He remembers the Pre War world—questions about family were innocuous, unlikely for the most part to be bad memories. But today—

"Nick…had a fiancée. He was working a nasty case, investigating a mob boss. Jenny was shot in retaliation."

"Oh god." Gary reaches over, squeezes Nick's hand. Nick squeezes back, thankful for the comfort. He turns to Deacon. "What about you? Any partners?"

Deacon shrugs. "I had a wife. She died a long time ago."

After a moment, Nick says, "I hope that's a lie. Otherwise, we make for one sorry bunch."

Deacon looks shocked for a moment, then bursts into laughter. Gary smiles too, and raises his beer bottle. "A toast, then. To our loved ones."

Deacon holds up a can of water. Nick, not having a drink, pulls out his pack of cigarettes and raises them in the air.

 

_They enter the police station. Nick tips his hat to the secretary at the desk, but is too distracted by the files in his hands to offer any more pleasantries. He hurries up the stairs, scattering papers behind him—_

—and falls face first through a stair that isn't there anymore.

The papers vanish, the quiet chattering of the station fades away. Nick winces, and picks himself out of a pile of rubble.

"You ok?" Deacon's hand at his elbow, helping him up.

"Yeah," Nick mutters, grabbing his hat and readjusting it on his head. "Just—memories. Again."

Deacon nods, his face impassive. "Not yours?"

Nick shakes his head. "It's like having a ghost in your head," he says. "These—flashes. Sometimes I'll be working at my desk and then I'll blink and realize I'm working on a case that's over two hundred years old."

"Is it gone now?"

Nick nods, takes a breath, worrying about overheating his system.

A few hours later, spent digging through the ruins of the police station in silence, Deacon suddenly speaks. "You're not the only one with memory problems."

Nick looks up. "Hmm?"

"I told you about that concussion I had, yeah? When that raider brained me with a tire iron?"

Nick remembers. Deacon claimed that the injury had left him sensitive to light—hence the sunglasses. Nick hadn't been sure if it was a lie, but since it seemed like a harmless one, he'd let it slide.

"Well, it scrambled my brains pretty good." Deacon hops up to sit on a desk, his legs swinging. "Erased a lot up here. Left it hard for me to form memories. I was having so much trouble after a while, that I went to Doctor Amari. She couldn't fix all the damage, but whatever she did, I can at least remember what I ate for breakfast.

"But from before the injury? There's not much left. Flashes, like you said. Stuff that I know happened but I couldn't tell you where or why or how. It's disconcerting. So, yeah. Like I said. You're not the only one."

Nick squints at him, trying to suss out the lie. He's not sure. But he recognizes what Deacon is trying to do, and appreciates it. "Good to know," he says, and takes it with a grain of salt.

 

That night, Deacon pulls Gary away from their campfire. Nick can hear them murmuring quietly. A human wouldn't've picked it up, but Nick's ears are better, and he can hear every word.

Deacon confesses to being a synth, an early escapee who'd lost all his memories to a botched mem job. And then he tells Gary about a recall code.

Nick sighs quietly. He'll admit, Deacon had him going for a moment, and just for a moment, he'd thought it might be nice to share an origin with one of his travelling partners. But a synth would never hand over a recall code just like that, and Nick knows it to be a lie.

Gary just thanks Deacon, and bids him goodnight.

Nick glances sideways, and sees Deacon lingering in the shadows, leaning up against a wall. He abandons the campfire, and makes his way over.

Deacon grins wryly when he sees him. "Heard every word of that, huh?"

Nick leans up against the wall next to him, and lights a cigarette. "You know he's never gonna read that, right?"

Deacon's grin vanishes. "I know. He's too good a person to even think of doing so."

"What does it say?" Nick asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Deacon shrugs. "Just a piece of helpful advice. If he ever sees it."

"You're not actually a synth then." Nick takes a long drag on the cigarette, wishing that he could feel its effects.

"Not that I'm aware of." Deacon pauses. "The bit about the memories though, that's true." He turns his head, and points to an ugly scar. "Every word of it."

"Do you remember—who you were? Before you joined the Railroad."

Deacon turns away again, the firelight reflecting off his sunglasses. "According to Amari," he says, "it's very rare for someone to actually forget who they are. Probably take a much bigger blow to the head than I got." He pauses again. "I was a farmer. Had a wife. Liked books. Hell, still like books." He shrugs. "Nah. Deacon is still here, even if the memories aren't."

"That's not your real name."

"Might as well be. I've had it for a long time."

Nick's not sure how much of this to take as truth. Deacon lies as easily as he breathes, Nick knows that. And yet—he wishes he can trust that it is the truth.

Deacon turns back to him, his usual ironic grin replaced with a soft smile. And Nick aches, wanting to believe that what Deacon says is true.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: This chapter contains the quest "The Disappearing Act" (Finding Earl Sterling), which gets pretty gruesome. Warning for blood bodies and vomit.

The work is almost complete, and Nick takes a day off.

He's making rounds in the Diamond City marketplace, chatting with the friendlier shopkeepers and picking up gossip, when he hears a giggle from Diamond City Surplus.

Nick frowns. That can't be right. There's nothing about Myrna that inspires levity whatsoever.

But Myrna has a customer, a woman with long brown hair and a pair of old designer sunglasses, who seems to be quite the flirt. Myrna's cheeks are red and her hand is over her mouth, concealing a smile. When the customer turns to leave, she throws a cute little wave over her shoulder, and Nick would swear that Myrna _swoons_.

Nick grabs a seat at Takahashi's counter, and trains his eye on the stranger as she meanders away from Myrna's shop. All of a sudden, the stranger looks over his way. Catches his eye, and smiles.

The smile is all Deacon.

After a moment, Nick realizes that his mouth is open in shock, and closes it.

 

Deacon is bored.

He's been kicked out of Hangman's Alley while Tom and his team put the finishing touches on the teleporter. Gary's gone north to Sanctuary, to visit with the settlement he'd helped establish—making the rounds, saying goodbyes. They're all aware that Gary might not be coming back from the Institute alive.

If the teleporter even works and gets him there, that is.

Deacon visits with Arturo, picks up a box of ammo (and if there's a covert note hidden in the box, then nobody's talking), eats a late breakfast. Takahashi and those damn noodles are slowly bankrupting him, but it is a delicious vice, and Deacon is willing to take the plunge.

Without anything else to do, he bops into Valentine's agency.

Ellie is sitting at her desk as usual, awash in paperwork. She glances up at him as he shuts the door. "If Gary weren't a client," she says, "I'd kick you out for taking up too much of Nick's time. We're backlogged enough as it is without your shenanigans—"

"Or you could help," Valentine calls over his shoulder.

Deacon rolls his neck, his vertebrae cracking. "Just say the word. I need a little distraction today."

Ellie passes him a file. Deacon cracks it open. "Missing person. Earl Sterling. Who's he?"

"He bartends at the Dugout," Valentine says. "Vanished a few days ago. No word to Vadim, or anyone else."

Deacon flips through the scribbled notes. He can easily tell the difference between Ellie's handwriting and Valentine's. Ellie's is actually legible. "Any thoughts?"

Ellie purses her lips. "Earl's very quiet. Awkward, but friendly. I think he kind of has an eye for me…"

"I'd be amazed if he had any enemies," Valentine adds. "He's the type that slides out of your mind as soon as you leave the room. No. I'd start with Vadim. Tried to question him when he brought the case to me, but he was upset and we couldn't get much out of him at the time."

Deacon shuts the folder. "Will do, boss," he says, throwing an awkward salute.

"Let me know if you need anything," Valentine says as Deacon heads out the door.

As soon as he explains to Vadim that he's doing Nicky a favor, following up on Earl Sterling, the good detective is a bit overworked at the moment, the man is all apologetic. "I should have thought," Vadim says. "His house key. I was not thinking at the time. Best of luck!"

Deacon jingles the key in his hand, and a minute later cracks open the door to Sterling's house.

It's painfully normal. Nothing Deacon hasn't seen before. These Diamond City houses are _cushy_ , he thinks, especially compared to a bare mattress down in a crypt…

The only thing of interest is a receipt for a payment at the Mega Surgery Center. Facial work. Deacon winces at the price. He's done enough facial reconstruction that he knows a bad deal when he sees one.

Unfortunately, the doctor at the Surgery Center is channeling Carrington today, and won't let Deacon investigate.

Time to call in the big guns.

He opens the door to the agency. Ellie looks up. "Back so soon?"

"Nick, I need you. I've got some bastard obstructing the pursuit of justice or something like that."

"What?" Valentine asks.

"Doctor Sun won't let me search his premises. I figure, you're local, he knows you, he'll have less of a problem with you demanding to see his basement."

Deacon quickly fills Valentine in on the details as they make their way back to the Surgery Center. Nick doesn't say anything, just frowns and nods as Deacon explains the trail.

Doctor Sun crosses his arms as they darken his doorstep. But all it takes is a few words from Nick, and he hands over the basement key. Deacon is quietly jealous. He can usually talk his way in or out of any situation, but the residents of Diamond City are tougher nuts to crack than the average Commonwealth citizen.

They descend into the basement, and the sight hits Deacon like a mahogany swatter. What's left of Earl Sterling is sitting in a drain, blood staining the floor, the stench thick on the air. Bones stick out of the mangled flesh. Above him, another doctor is standing with his back towards them, a bonesaw whirring in his hands.

A hot shiver races up Deacon's spine, and spots dance in front of his vision. His limbs suddenly turn to jelly, and all he can manage is a valiant "Excuse me" before he has to turn aside and vomit.

He bends over, a hand on the cool concrete wall, bracing himself, and trying to breathe, trying to drown out the roaring in his head, the mental voice screaming at him to get out of here. Valentine is saying something, and the doctor replies in a broken voice, but Deacon can't focus on the details, just trying to keep himself from bolting in a panic.

As soon as he can straighten up, he watches the doctor, almost in tears, plunge a hypodermic into his skin and begin to seize.

So much for the rest of his breakfast.

There's a hand on his arm. Somehow Valentine pulls him out of that oppressive basement and out into the winter sunlight. Deacon gulps down deep breaths of air, wincing at the taste in his mouth. A metal hand presses a can of water into his own, and he pops it open and rinses his mouth out.

"So we solved the case," he says dizzily.

Valentine frowns at him. "You ok?"

Deacon sips at the water, willing his stomach to calm. "I don't like people fucking with corpses," he murmurs. "Especially not dismemberment. Get nightmares about that shit."

"I kind of gathered."

"It's 'cause I got dismembered once," Deacon says, his mind floating off on a high induced by panic. He hardly knows what's coming out of his mouth. "Took a lot of stimpacks to set that right, lemme tell you—"

Valentine just grasps his elbow and leads him through the market. "I'm sure," he replies to Deacon's babbling.

He opens the door to the agency and dumps Deacon in the client's chair. Ellie looks up, her face falling when she sees them. "Earl?"

"Is dead," Valentine says shortly. "Doc Crocker was trying to cover up a botched surgery."

"Oh god." Ellie presses a hand to her mouth. "Poor Earl…"

"Can you look after him?" Valentine pats Deacon on the back. "Crime scenes don't agree with him." He sighs. "I need to go down to the Dugout, let Vadim know…"

"Of course," Ellie says.

Deacon slumps over and puts his head in his hands, trying to block the mental images of that grisly scene. It would be easy, he knows, to go back to Doctor Sun and beg some drugs off him, but he can't. Can't go back down that road.

He resigns himself to not sleeping tonight.

 

Gary stands on the teleporter pad, the air humming around him. The small snowflakes drifting down are highlighted in the harsh light of the electronics.

Dez stands in front of him, her face bathed in light. "Well, good luck, Charmer. When you get there, get that program uploaded as soon as possible. And remember—"

"I remember our briefing," Gary says.

She nods once and stands back.

Deacon smiles. "And the new call-and-response, too?"

"I remember that as well."

It'll protect them if the Gary that comes back isn't Gary. An infiltrator. Funny how such a simple phrase might buy them their lives.

"All right. Godspeed."

Nick just raises a hand. Gary raises his own, and then there's a beeping from the terminal, a rush of static, a blinding flash of light.

Then air rushes in to fill the space where Gary was standing a moment ago.

They hesitate. "Tom," Dez calls over to the controls. "Did it work."

Tom taps a few keys, then his face lights up. "I think we got it."

The Railroad agents don't linger long. Within minutes, Hangman's Alley is almost empty, as though no one has ever been here, constructing a contraption that may save the Commonwealth.

Or prove its undoing.

Nick glances at Deacon, who is lingering against a brick wall, his expression unreadable. The Railroad's got what it wanted. A man on the inside. But Gary—his client—friend—

He only hopes that Gary can find his son. The Institute and all its machinations can go to hell. But Gary deserves closure. And a chance for happiness.

 

For some reason, Deacon follows Nick back to the agency.

Ellie's already out for the night. Nick pauses, and Deacon shuts the door behind him. Looking for a place to crash for the night? Or just lingering a moment before departing?

"So…I guess this is goodbye for now," Nick says, trying to suss things out.

"No it isn't," Deacon says. "Plan is, if— _when_ Charmer comes back, he's going to meet me here. In Diamond City. I have to make sure he's not compromised. Before we can resume further contact."

"You could be waiting a very long time. If not everything went to plan—"

"I'll wait as long as I need to."

Nick stares into those sunglasses, tries to read emotion off Deacon's calm face. "Have you ever had something for yourself?" he asks. "I mean—something that's not the Railroad. But just for you."

Deacon shrugs. "Might've. At one point. Doesn't matter anymore."

If Nick had a heart, it would be hurting right now. He knows, knows that people have given up everything for a cause before. Hell, without the agency, he wouldn't have much left for himself. But Deacon—Nick feels like he deserves more.

He doesn't know how to say this, or even if he should. But if he's being honest with himself, this past month working with Deacon has shown him that his first impressions were wrong, that there really is a person buried under all those layers of secrets and lies and snark. A person who Nick can admire.

"Of course it matters," Nick says. "You matter."

Deacon snorts. "That's nice of you to say. But please don't pick up my bad habit of saying things that aren't true."

"It's not a lie." Nick reaches out with his good hand, not entirely sure of what he's reaching for. Deacon catches it though, and doesn't shy away when Nick cups his cheek. Rather, he leans into the touch, his own hand cradling Nick's.

A smile flits over Deacon's face. "Gary's walked into Hell and left us behind," he murmurs. "Ungrateful bastard. I hate waiting on the sidelines like this." His stubble tickles Nick's hand.

"You don't have to wait alone," Nick says.

He's not sure who makes the first move, or if they move together, but they close the gap, their lips brushing together. Nick wraps his metal hand around Deacon's waist, wanting to minimize the uncanniness of his being. Deacon, however, doesn't seem to mind, grasping Nick's face and leaning into the kiss, his breath hot in Nick's mouth. In that moment, Nick regrets that his taste sensors have been turned off for a long time, and maybe he should look into figuring out how to switch them on again, although he is certain that his mouth mostly tastes like an ashtray and that can't be very pleasant, but Deacon doesn't seem to care—the sensation of wetness takes Nick's breath away because it's been so long since he felt that, and the sensory memory it evokes belongs to a man long dead.

They pause a moment, lips ghosting against the others'. Nick feels Deacon reach up, and grasp the crown of his hat, lift it away, set it on the desk. Then Deacon's hand returns to his face, gently stroking along the edges of Nick's broken skin. Nick privately hates going without the hat; it disguises his worn head. He is a synth—resembles the old gen 2s that they shoot down without a second thought because those things have just a facsimile of humanity—but Deacon has told him over and over that he knows Nick is a person.

And now, shows him. Actions speak louder than words, and Nick feels like a person.

Nick slowly moves his hand from Deacon's cheek. Bumps the plastic of his sunglasses. Deacon pauses for a moment, gives a hint of a nod, and Nick slowly slides the sunglasses down his nose, lifts them away. Deacon looks up at him from under fair eyelashes. His eyes are blue. A really deep blue. And then he smiles against Nick's mouth. "Like what you see?"

"Was starting to think you didn't have eyes under there," Nick says, and resumes kissing him with a vengeance.

He wonders vaguely why Deacon is going along with this. Deacon's made his opinions about personal attachments quite clear, and apart from a long-dead wife, has never mentioned any partners. Nick is honored that Deacon trusts him, but a small process in the back of his mind says, _This may not mean anything to him._

Nick doesn't like casual. Not in a former life, and not now. But there doesn't seem to be any way to figure it out other than to go with things; he's certain that if he asks Deacon, he'll just get a lie. Actions speak louder than words.

Deacon reaches up to his shoulders, pushes his trench coat off. The stiff fabric crumples on the floor. Before Nick can blink, Deacon has grabbed his tie and pulled him in again, burying his face in what's left of Nick's neck, nosing at the torn edges. Nick isn't sure if he likes the sensation of Deacon at the edge of his skin, but he lets it go, gives himself a moment to get used to it, drops his hands down to Deacon's waist, tucks his thumbs into Deacon's waistband.

But Deacon reaches down, covers Nick's hands with his own, and moves them back up, wraps himself in Nick's embrace. A boundary. So Nick doesn't push it, just hugs Deacon in tighter, trying to ignore a process that says, _What made you assume he'd want a synth? He's devoted himself to the human ones. Not the mannequins like you._

Deacon exhales slowly. "Can I stay with you? Until Charmer gets back?"

"Of course," Nick says, his voice raspy. "I should let you get to sleep now." He lets Deacon go, starts to move away, but Deacon grabs his hand.

"I'm not gonna sleep tonight anyway," Deacon says. "Stay with me."

Deacon sheds a few layers; a heavy coat and flannel shirt, leaving behind a lighter flannel and his jeans. He sits down on the bed with a groan, undoes his shoes. Wraps himself around Nick once Nick climbs into the bed. He draws the covers over them, and soaks up the heat of Deacon's embrace.

"I don't like sex," Deacon murmurs after a few minutes. His words float off into the dark. "I'll only sleep with someone if I need to get something from them. It's not—I'd turn down anyone I actually cared for." He pauses a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is lighter, trying to inject a bit of levity. "Even a handsome synth like yourself."

Nick just hugs him tighter, happy that he can let his own self doubts evaporate.

"I'm not good at having friends," Deacon says after another moment. "So if I fuck something up, just tell me, ok?"

"I will," Nick says.

Despite his claims otherwise, Deacon eventually does fall asleep, and it's so nice to see his face smooth out, without the sunglasses pressing into his temple. Nick just strokes his arm like he'd pet a cat. It's the only thing that seems to keep nightmares away. Nick's not sure what Deacon has seen to intrude on his dreams so violently every night, and he's not entirely sure he wants to know.

Nick eventually lapses into the state that he refers to as "wool-gathering"; not really asleep, but not really awake either. And definitely not aware of his surroundings.

When he comes to, it's morning. And Deacon is gone.

 

"Did you see Deacon?" he asks when Ellie comes in with a cup of tea.

"No," she says, setting the tea on her desk and pulling off her scarf. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. "Why? Was he supposed to be here?"

Nick shrugs. "Just curious."

They sort through paperwork, discussing whether to bring in Diamond City Security on a case that is likely to get violent. Upperstanders, using their privilege to push chems and escape the consequences.

After ensuring that the conflict is resolved and one man is put in the cells overnight to detox, Nick returns to the agency, weary and annoyed at people. The sun is sinking low on the horizon, and Nick is very _very_ determined to try and keep Deacon out of his mind. Try and keep from overanalyzing his disappearance, or for that matter, everything that happened last night.

He lets Ellie go early that night, gives her some extra caps from the case fee to buy a hot drink, and locks the agency door.

Which is why he's so surprised when he goes to stash the leftover caps and finds Deacon sitting on the bed.

"How'd you get in here?" he asks, "And don't tell me the window this time." A lie Deacon had used the first time they met, when he'd crept into the agency like a ghost.

Deacon just shrugs. He's bundled up for the weather, foregoing a wig for a knit cap. "That upstairs door does still work, you know," he says. "It needed a lot of grease and a good thumping, but it does work."

Damn. Nick had forgotten about that door. They never used it, and he'd assumed that it was permanently stuck closed. Looks like he'd have to begin locking it.

"Where were you today?" Nick asks.

Deacon wiggles out of his heavy jacket. "Had some errands to run. And—" He pulls off his sunglasses, sets them down on the bed. "Had some stuff to think over," he says, looking up at Nick. Nick can see his own eyes reflected in Deacon's.

He pauses. Nick breaks the silence. "And?"

Deacon stands. "I'm not good at having friends," he says again. "The job doesn't really encourage it. I can't afford to trust anyone, because they might be turned against me. Or used as leverage. I might have to betray them. And I've never had the luxury of feeling guilty about any of it."

Nick glances down, having trouble meeting Deacon's unveiled eyes. "Seems like you're a bit past that point. Especially concerning Gary."

Deacon snorts. "What, by trying to turn him into a cold, heartless spy? I'm using him, remember? You said so yourself. He's only in the Institute right now because that's where we want him."

Nick remembers that conversation. Deacon hadn't denied a word of it.

"You forget," Deacon murmurs. "I'm not a good person."

And _that_ makes Nick furious. He's finally able to meet Deacon's eyes. "That," he says, "is bullshit. I've seen what you do for the synths that come out of there. And sometimes I wish to god that you people had existed back when they tossed me out. Because what I went through? I wouldn't wish it on anyone. You do good things. You help people. So _don't_ say that you're not a good person." First impressions could be wrong. Nick remembers how suspicious of Deacon he'd been when they first met. Constantly assuming the worst. And Deacon's enigmatic tendencies hadn't helped in the least.

But when Deacon had said to Gary to pay attention to actions, not words, Nick had started looking closer. And he saw a good person underneath all the misdirection. Someone who didn't think about himself, but someone who looked for ways he could help other people.

Deacon glares at him. "I'd rather not open my closet and let you inspect the skeletons in there. There are a lot, by the way. Remember University Point?" He doesn't elaborate, just sighs. "Look. I've given you my bona fides as best I can. Not lying is hard. I dunno how you took everything I've told you and got 'good person' out of that. But, hell." He seems to lose steam, and looks at the wall.

"It wasn't what you told me," Nick says. "It's what I've seen you do."

Deacon sags, plops back down on the bed. "Face it, Valentine," he says, "You're a better person than I'll ever be. And that's why I like you." He looks up at Nick, his face raw. "It's just—I've had to betray people I cared about before. And I don't ever want that again. It's easier not to care at all. And I don't know what you want from me."

Nick sits down next to him. "I just want you." And that's never gonna happen, he tells himself. Deacon and the Railroad are tied together; they are one and the same. But he's willing to try.

Deacon glances at him, and grins. "Yeah? You get me, then. Not Deacon and Vaultie-who-Deacon-is-helping out, just Deacon. And I get you, yeah? Not 'oh detective help me', but just Nick Valentine." His grin softens into a proper smile. "I think I'd like that." The smile vanishes. "If you don't mind all the baggage about trust and betrayal, then yeah. That might be nice."

"I can handle myself," Nick says. "Not like I haven't been betrayed before. And hell, if it ever comes to that, I won't take it personally."

Deacon snorts. "Nice to know. All this honesty is giving me a headache. Can we stop?"

Nick chuckles. "Sure."

With that says, Deacon pulls him in by the tie and kisses him.

 

They are lying in bed, curled up against each other, when the agency door bangs open.

In a flash, Deacon is out of bed, his sunglasses on, and his pistol drawn. It takes Nick a second longer to react—Nick doesn't have the paranoia and reaction times that Deacon's honed over many years—but he is right behind, not even bothering with his hat as he too draws his gun.

Gary stumbles over the threshold like a man in a desert stumbling on an oasis. Nick moves to grab him and drag him in, but Deacon throws out an arm and blocks him.

"Did you pick up the newspaper today?" Deacon asks, staring down at Gary, who is hunched over and trembling.

"I—"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Nick mutters, and tries to move forward.

Deacon pushes him back, and positions himself in front of Gary, blocking the door, and pointing his pistol right at Gary's head. "I need to know," he says in a low tone, " _Did you pick up the newspaper today?"_

After a few fraught moments, Gary finally manages to gasp out, "No, the dog got it first."

Deacon lowers his gun and steps aside, allowing Nick to grab Gary's arms and drag him in, sit him down in the clients' chair. Deacon closes and locks the door behind them.

Gary is hyperventilating. His eyes are closed, his fingers trembling as they grip the arms of the chair. Deacon leans in, pulls off Gary's hat, and puts a hand under his chin, lifts his head. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, trying to make his voice as reassuring as possible. Gary's eyes eventually meet his own. "Can't be too careful."

He takes his hand back and leans against the desk. "Honestly, at this point, I was wondering if you'd come back at all."

A few minutes of silence, and Gary's breathing slowly calms. He releases his death grip from the armrests, and leans forward, buries his face in his hands.

Deacon's never seen Gary like this; even when emerging from the Vault, seeing his old neighborhood, realizing what had happened to the world—hell, Gary's always been calm and collected, to an amazing degree. Deacon can't imagine what he's gone through to shake him like this.

"Hey," Nick murmurs. "You're back. And safe, that's what counts. Gotta ask. Did you find Shaun?"

Gary takes a deep breath. "He—Shaun. He's—" Seems to have trouble dragging the words out of his throat. He takes another breath. "Kellogg—took him sixty years ago."

They wait with bated breath. "Is he alive?" Nick asks quietly.

"They raised him there. Shaun—he's the Director of the Institute." The last sentence comes out in a rush of words.

Nick and Deacon glance at each other. Deacon's sure his face has the exact expression of horror that Nick is wearing.

"Ok," he says after a minute, forcing his voice to remain calm. "So you were able to leave, and you're unharmed. How did your son treat you?"

"I—fine. He was fine." Gary swallows, his throat bobbing. "Hospitable. He's really—proud. Of everything down there."

"And he let you leave on good terms?"

"He wants me to work for them on the surface," Gary says, finally lifting his head, eyes flickering between the two of them. "Like Kellogg. They stuck a chip in my pip-boy so I can use the relay. He—wants me to meet one of the Coursers and reclaim an escaped synth."

Deacon holds out his hand. "Give me that."

Gary hesitates a moment, then clicks the pip-boy off his wrist and hands it to Deacon, who kills the power. "Necessary precaution. You'll have to go without it for now." He gestures to Nick. "Pass me a screwdriver." Nick silently hands one over and Deacon opens the pip-boy, flicking through the internal workings. He quickly finds the Institute chip. It looks like it draws from the pip-boy's own power source, so shutting it down has probably rendered it safe for now. He closes the panel and starts putting back the screws. "We'll have to have Tom go through this, make sure this little bug doesn't do anything else besides accessing the relay." He sets the screwdriver down on the desk. "You're still on board with us, yes? Infiltration and intel? I need to know that you can commit to this. And I know—I know it's hard to work against someone you care about. Trust me. But if you're not on board, tell me now."

Gary shakes his head. "I'm with you. All the way."

Deacon nods. "Good. And your son—he has no idea that you've had contact with us? Has no idea you even know about the Railroad?"

"I don't think so. He seemed very ready to put his trust in me."

"Ok." Deacon sets the pip-boy down. "And you?" he asks. "Are you ok?"

Gary sighs. "I don't know."

"Hey." Nick puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's ok. You don't need to know how you feel about things right now. Right now, you should get some sleep. It sounds like it's been a long week."

Gary sighs. Nick helps him out of the chair, and guides him up to the bed in the loft. Deacon stays where he is, perched against the desk. He can hear some soft words pass between the two, then the creaking of the bedframe.

Nick comes back down, and wraps an arm around Deacon's shoulder. Deacon doesn't look up at him. He's still staring at the abandoned pip-boy on the desk. Nick tugs at him gently. "No use brooding," he murmurs. "You need sleep too."

Deacon lets Nick pluck the sunglasses off his face and lead him back to bed, tuck them both under the blanket. Deacon buries his face in Nick's shirt collar. "What's eating ya?" Nick murmurs.

"Ever since Switchboard," Deacon says into the fabric, "I've felt like we're living on borrowed time. I mean, one day our number's going to be up. And I can't shake that feeling that we're barreling towards that moment."

He pauses, worries a button on Nick's shirt with his fingers. "And I don't know if we're ready for it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


End file.
